


The Art of Flying

by FictionPenned



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Adjusting to new wings gained via magic/transformation/experimentation, F/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28848504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: Adopting wings is as much an act of artistry as it is an act of magic, and it is far more delicate work than brushing oil across canvas or fletching an arrow or drawing a vase from a lump of wet clay.To fly with them is even harder.Written for Bulletproof 20/21
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10
Collections: Bulletproof 20/21





	The Art of Flying

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wingfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingfics/gifts).



Feyre has yet to master the art of shapeshifting. It is slipperier than some of the other powers that were gifted to her by the High Lords of Prythian, more naturally inclined towards moments of failure and misuse than her powers over air or water or darkness or fire. So, too, is that specific power inextricably bound with memories of her own trauma and suffering at Tamlin's hands. 

It becomes even more difficult to wield when one decides to deal in complexities, which Feyre pretty much always does. She uses this gift for one purpose and one purpose only: she wants to fly. 

Adopting wings is as much an act of artistry as it is an act of magic, and it is far more delicate work than brushing oil across canvas or fletching an arrow or drawing a vase from a lump of wet clay. 

To actually fly with them is even harder. 

It is not enough to simply think of wings, she must craft them with her magic. She must know not only how they look, but how they feel. She must remember all of the muscles and membranes that ripple beneath her fingers whenever she runs her hands over Rhysand's body. 

Even once the wings extend from her back and are sturdy enough for their purpose, it is a strange thing to flex muscles that she has never had before, to take to the sky and trust that she will not fall. All too often, Feyre's human heart and High Fae body fail her, and she crashes to the ground without ceremony or success or the last remaining shreds of her dignity.

Rare are the nights when she tumbles into bed without a selection of mottled bruises and shallow scratches that speak to the many missteps that have come to define her days. 

However, she does not resent the injuries as much as she once did. In the dim light of the bedroom, Rhys is often inclined to trace the marks with his lips and his tongue, soothing and and masking the temporary hurt until the morning, when -- thanks to the healing power of fae blood -- they disappear from her skin. 

His touch is more than enough to encourage Feyre's continued experimentation. She wants not only her mate's comfort, but his pride. 

By the time she is confident enough in her newfound abilities to share them with Rhysand, spring has given way to summer and summer has given way to autumn.

The chilled air of the mountains cuts into her cheeks, leaving them rosy in the warm light of the rising sun, but she throws off her jacket and spreads her wings wide -- allowing them to catch the early rays. 

They are the same inky black of the Night Court sky, though entirely devoid of stars. 

Her mate is a creature of the dark -- both the intimate dark of lovers and the cruel dark of war -- and she matches him inch for inch. 

Behind her, she hears his breath catch. 

She feels his eyes bore into her. 

She senses his intensity as it rakes across her skin.

But she does not dare to look at him. 

If she does, she will surely fall. 

Falling for the High Lord of the Night Court and falling to her death are sometimes the same thing. 

Her bare toes flirt with the edge of the cliff. 

She looks towards the sky. 

She fills her lungs with the same clear, biting air that surrounds them both. 

And, finally, she jumps with her wings spread wide to catch her. 

Feyre does not remember the flight itself. Her mind leaves her body. Her thoughts focus only on the task at hand. Her ears fill with the rush of wind and the frantic pounding of her heart. 

And when she finally lands, she lands on Rhysand, and her momentum sends them rolling in a storm of powdered snow and leathery wings and leaking magic. 

Feyre settles on top of him, studying his face intently as he lets out a low whistle. 

Despite the adoration scrawled across his face, the High Lord retreats into the playful flirtations that have guarded his heart since the very first moments they ever spent together. 

"Feyre, darling, you are exceptionally stunning when you're mimicking me." 

Though the attitude is familiar, it is not the breathless praise that Feyre has so long desired, and whatever else Rhys was going to say is first muted beneath the warm press of Feyre's lips against his and then struck from his mind entirely as she follows it up with a magically thrown snowball to the face. 

"You're the worst, you know that?" she says, nose wrinkling as she folds her wings against her back and wraps her fingers around his wrists, pinning him tightly against the ice cold ground. 

Rhysand, ever the picture of fond insolence, grins. 

"As if you'd ever allow me to forget." 

Feyre eyes sparkle as she spreads her wings over them, blanketing them in the cool caress of feigned night. 

"Tell me how you really feel," she purrs, lips buzzing against the delicate hollow at the base of Rhysand's neck as she continues to pin him beneath her. She feels his throat bob beneath her touch as he swallows. 

"I think you are exceptional, Feyre." 

There is a softness to the words, an affection that reaches beyond language and thought and into the finnicky world of pure, unbridled emotion. 

The tattoo on her hand that marks their bargain grows warm, as if bristling with life all its own, and, finally pleased, Feyre meets Rhys' affection with love of her own, scrawling it into his skin she she guides her lips over the body that she has so long studied. 

Love is an art more that comes more naturally to Feyre than the art of flying, but it is equally thrilling, in its way, and she is more than willing to specialize in both. 


End file.
